


Grasping Modern Art

by 3littleowls



Series: The Detective's Antidote [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Humor, Japanese Rope Bondage, M/M, Mild Kink, Non-Sexual Bondage, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/pseuds/3littleowls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes John to a gallery as part of the case. What he sees is very...educational.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grasping Modern Art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prurient_curiosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prurient_curiosity/gifts).



> AU Timeline: This occurs after _One Brave Deed_

John jogged around the corner, keeping Sherlock’s billowing coat in sight.

“Hurry, John!” Sherlock called over his shoulder. Sherlock skidded to a halt outside a modern looking glass-windowed shop.

John reached him, catching his breath as Sherlock poked at his mobile. Sherlock frowned at it.

“What’s wrong?” John panted.

“Our contact’s performance is running late, and our person-of-interest has arrived early. Artists cannot stick to a schedule,” Sherlock snapped. 

“Performance?” John asked, looking through the glass window. 

“Of course, John. Our contact is a performance artist. Try to keep up.” Sherlock tucked his phone away and opened the door.

John caught the door as Sherlock swung through. Sherlock was speaking quietly to a young man stationed at the entrance, who pointed towards the back of the room. He handed Sherlock a pamphlet, and Sherlock stuffed it in John’s hand.

John had just enough time to read the front title: _Inspired by Japan: Modern Classics_

“John! For Christ’s sake!” Sherlock hissed impatiently and started to weave through the exhibit space.

John was immediately happy Sherlock had convinced him to change his clothes to something more formal. Well dressed men and women lingered in small groups around paintings and sculptures. He recognised a mosaic interpretation of the _The Great Wave off Kanagawa_. A woman stood on a low pedestal, draped in a kimono that somehow sparkled with electric light.

“Is that the performance art?” John asked Sherlock as they hustled past.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Sherlock told him.

John did. A small stage had been set up against the back wall of the gallery. A man and a woman were posed together, completely nude. Well, not _completely_. They were both wearing bird masks with feathered headdresses- the woman as a white crane and the man a black cormorant, and they were bound together in an elaborate weave of black and white rope. It must have taken a long time to create- the artist used many yards of rope secured with knots both functional and decorative, and there were even thin cords wound between the models’ fingers and toes.

They were positioned in an embrace, each only standing on one leg, his resting on her thigh, hers around his waist. The bindings made it possible for them to balance and hold the pose. Even then, John could see a fine sheen of sweat over each of them, and the man, who was holding most of the weight, would occasionally shiver from strain.

John turned to look at Sherlock. “Well, wow.”

Sherlock was gaping at the pair on display, a gloved finger over his parted lips. 

“Sherlock?” John squinted at him.

Sherlock ignored him, and went closer to the models, probably too close to be polite. John could see his eyes tracing the paths of the ropes that travelled over their bodies.

“There you are!” A woman turned from a group of nearby people. She was several years their senior, with her graying hair held into a bun with an array of hairsticks. She looked familiar to John, but he couldn’t quite place her face.

“Justine, your work is exquisite,” Sherlock complimented.

“The grace and stamina of my two pets should get some of the credit.” She smiled, and ran a finger down the back of the woman’s arm. She trembled a little in response.

“So...what am I looking at here?” John asked.

“Doctor Watson! Justine Harper. We met at Sherlock and Darin’s wedding.” She smiled and extended a hand. She had a firm grip when John took it.

“Of course! I knew we had met before.”

“To answer your question, you are looking at kinbaku, or more often called shibari. It is an aesthetic and sensual art form.” 

John looked over the couple doubtfully. “Pardon me for asking, but are they safe like that?”

She smiled. “Don’t worry, doctor. I’m very experienced, and have been working with both of my volunteers for several years. My assistant or I am never out of sight, and they have a safeword if they choose to use it.”

Sherlock smirked. “Which they won’t.”

Justine laughed. “Probably not. Their time is almost up, anyway.”

“Justine, while illuminating, we didn’t rush over to educate John about Japanese bondage,” Sherlock said pointedly.

John glared at Sherlock.

“Of course not. The art dealer you want to talk to is in a yellow floral tie. I last saw him in the front room.” Justine dropped her voice. “You didn’t hear it from me, but he has a lot of special connections...people that may know something about your missing painting.” 

“Excellent.” Sherlock hesitated, eyes skimming over the bound couple, then flicking back to Justine. His expression was silently questioning.

Justine smiled. “I know what you're feeling, dear, but everything is fine. You weren't even supposed to be here, anyway. Shoo.” 

Something in Sherlock’s face become feral, almost possessive before it melted away. He nodded once and turned to circle around the gallery. 

John followed him. He had no idea what the hell _that_ had been about.

###

John took a moment to write a quick summary in his notebook about the information they had managed to squeeze out of the art dealer. They had followed him around the gallery, observing him and seeing who he was interacting with for about a half-hour, before Sherlock sidled up to him and started interviewing him to see what he would spill.

Afterwards, to John’s surprise, Sherlock roamed the gallery. He claimed he needed to think, and since there was no time like the present, he may as well do so in a pleasant environment. A curtain had been pulled around the nude performers some time ago, so Sherlock gazed absently at the other works on display. 

“Good evening, John.”

John looked up from his notebook with some surprise. “Darin! I didn’t know you were stopping by.”

Darin nodded at the older man next to him. “This is Clive Harper, Justine’s husband. You met at the wedding. We thought we would…”

Darin swayed suddenly. Clive reached out and steadied his elbow.

John grinned. He thought he had heard a slur in Darin’s voice. “Out on a bender while your spouses were busy?”

Clive shrugged and smiled. 

Like every drunk bloke put to the question, Darin insisted, “I’m not pissed, I’m fine.” 

“I thought I’d just let Sherlock take him home,” Clive explained. He let go of Darin’s arm experimentally.

“I’m here,” Sherlock came over. “Darin, do you need to sit?”

Darin shook his head. “I’m all right now, really.”

Sherlock looked Darin over with a critical eye.

“Let me get you a glass of water, Darin. I’ll be right back, excuse me,” Clive said.

Sherlock slid an arm around Darin’s waist. Darin’s jelly-legs seemed to give out a little and he slumped against Sherlock heavily.

“Feeling good?” Sherlock asked him quietly.

“Bloody brill,” Darin murmured into Sherlock’s lapels. 

John chuckled, and abruptly stopped. “Darin? What did you do to your hand?”

Darin looked at the back of his hand. Dark pink marks criss-crossed the back of his skin and John could see they even ran around his wrist as his jacket sleeve slipped down.

“Oh. It’s nothing,” Darin curled his hand under Sherlock’s jacket as if to hide it. Sherlock petted Darin’s hair in a rare display of public affection. 

John frowned. They had almost looked like burn marks. Oddly patterned burn marks…

John’s eyebrows shot up.

“It only took you years to finally piece it together,” Sherlock said dryly.

“Be nice. It’s not like I post announcements in the _Evening Standard_ ,” Darin said, muffled against Sherlock. 

“Er…” John replied intelligently. 

“I’m a professor. I have to be a little discreet. Plus it’s not like you signed up to participate.”

Sherlock sighed. “Darin has overdeveloped morals when it comes to consent. We weren’t supposed to be here tonight, but this client called in, and I knew Justine had connections. Even then, the original plan was to arrive after the demonstration. I was attempting to conceal what you saw, but Darin is an incompetent actor.” 

John gaped. “But...you were with a woman...”

“That’s your first thought? Just because I don’t have sex with them, doesn’t mean I’m allergic to them. Jesus.” Darin giggled.

“He’s punchy from the endorphins,” Sherlock explained. “Justine let him recover, but he’s going to be affected for some time.” 

Darin hummed into Sherlock’s chest. “Good.”

John closed his mouth. “So you two...do this. And with other people?”

“Don’t ask things you don’t want answers to, John.” Sherlock said.

John nodded. “Yeah, got it. I should have known you two would be kinky bastards.”

“You have no idea,” Darin laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> More thanks to three of the Four Betas of the Pornopocalypse: alutiv, Anarfea and Prurient_curiosity.


End file.
